Go to Sleep, Brother
by gopadfoot
Summary: Eurus has been neutralized. John and Sherlock have been saved. The nightmare is over- or is it? Mycroft has been found, physically unharmed, but not the same as before.
1. Chapter 1

"So, I've recieved a report about your brother," Lestrade told Sherlock, as they watched Eurus being led away.

"Is he alright?" Sherlock asked quietly, concern leaking into his voice.

"She... she didn't hurt him, as far as we could tell. She had locked him in into her old cell," Greg said hesitantly.

"What goes around, comes around," John mused in bitter irony.

"No, John, wait," Sherlock put a hand on his friend's shoulder. He then turned to the DI. "You didn't tell me everything."

"Well, yes," the DI ruffled his hair nervously. "Your brother seemed to be a bit, er, out of it. He wasn't talking. In fact, he was totally unresponsive."

"Catatonic?" Sherlock asked tersely.

"I'm afraid so," Lestrade said gently.

"I see," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Greg, I'm afraid I'm in no state to assess the situation myself. I will visit the first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, can you make sure he's taken care of?"

"I will," the DI assured him.

Sherlock remained standing silently until John nudged him in the arm. "Alright, Sherlock?"

"Let's go," the detective said quietly.

Early the next morning, Sherlock was at his brother's side. He watched the man with the lifeless blank eyes, and tried to reconcile the image that of the British Government he was acquainted with. It didn't work.

Sherlock tried calling his name. Then he tried shaking him, gently at first, and then more roughly, as he recieved no response. An overwhelming panic seized him. "MYCROFT!" he bellowed, shaking the listless man violently, over and over again.

Firm hands took hold of him and gently led him away. Sherlock didn't resist, and let his feet take him wherever he was led, barely noticing his surroundings. His mouth kept moving, voicing the same word over and over again.

 _Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft._

The detective felt a strange sensation on his face, a stinging wetness that trailed down from his eyes. _Sentiment, brother dear, it's called sentiment,_ he thought ironically. He couldn't deal with this now, not after everything that had happened, not when his life had been proven a lie.

He left his brother alone, but he would be back. There was no way he would give up on Mycroft.

Just as Mycroft had never given up on him.

* * *

In a heavily guarded cell in Sherrinford, Eurus Holmes was staring into space.

She had done it. Eurus had finally broken Big Brother Mycroft. It hadn't been top difficult, really. All she needed was enough time with him, at a point where he was particularly vulnerable. Mycroft had already been broken, under that mask of ice.

She had poked and prodded at the ice for hours, widening the cracks until she reached his vulnerable core. Then she delivered her final blow.

 _Sherlock would be better off without you. He tried to kill himself for your sake. You make him weak, Mycroft._

 _No, no, don't think you can just off yourself. Sherlock will feel guilty. He's been developing an awful lot of sentiment lately, have you noticed?_

 _Yes, that's better. Just go quietly. Don't interact with anyone. Don't respond. You will never again be a burden on anyone, a pressure point to be used. Sherlock will never have to make a choice between killing you and killing himself again..._

 _That's more like it. Go to sleep, Mycroft, go on sleep. Everything will be fine. Sherlock will be happy... Goodnight, brother._

Sherlock was the one she wanted to play with, but Mycroft was the one she wanted to break.

In her cell, Eurus smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Once again, Sherlock was visiting his incapacitated brother. Or rather, the hollow shell that was left behind by the man who once ruled Great Britain with his Great Black Brolly in hand.

Sherlock didn't speak. There was something horrifying about having his words bounce off ears that should be working, and falling instead into a black void. So he sat, and observed. Nothing. No change, no indication of life. _Mycroft, brother mine, what has she done to you?_

Sherlock stood up suddenly. There was only one way to find out.

* * *

She sat cross-legged on the floor, and waited. She hadn't expected to wait this long. Yet she knew he would come. Soon, Sherlock would come and play with her, and it would be just like the good old days. She would make him him laugh, and cry, and scream, maybe even all together at once.

Sherlock was her favorite. Like her violin, he was so easy to play, and made such beautiful sounds. Beneath her skillful fingers, he would vibrate with excitement, or tremble with fear. He was never dull, despite being stupid. She couldn't wait to play.

She frowned suddenly. It was a pity she had saved the doctor from the well. Now Sherlock would be busy with him, and would forget all about her. But she had been confused, and Sherlock had convinced her that he could help her land, but she needed to save his friend first.

Eurus didn't understand it, not really. Why did Sherlock form such strong attachments to ordinary humans? The redheaded little human was gone for a long time, yet Sherlock still seemed upset about that. Now it was the little blond-haired man he was attached to. Humans, so tricky. Letting themselves be ruled by convoluted emotions, to their own detriment. Fortunately, she was above all that.

She strummed at her instrument as she waited. _I that am lost, oh, who will find me..._

Sherlock would find her. She wanted to play.

* * *

"Anthea, I need a favor," Sherlock spoke into his mobile.

"No, it's not about Mycroft. I need to see my sister. Yes, _that_ one. How many other hidden sisters do I have? I'm _not_ forgetting what she did to Mycroft. In fact, that's exactly why I need to go see her. Eurus is the key to Mycroft's recovery.

"What do you mean, she doesn't speak? Get me in. I want to see for myself. Anthea, _please._ Do what you can. I'm afraid this is our only hope."

* * *

"Eurus," Sherlock greeted his sister softly. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock saw the spark of recognition in his sister's eyes. He continued talking, in the same voice. "I hope you're feeling well. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

She was looking straight at him, without blinking, but didn't respond. Sherlock resumed his monologue. "Would you like to hear a composition I came up with? Perhaps you can play along, after I play it once."

Through his sister's silence and unwavering stare, Sherlock played. When he finished the piece, he looked at her expectantly. She stared some more.

Sherlock was beginning to feel slightly unnerved. He put his violin down, and returned her intense gaze. For several long moments, brother and sister looked at each other silently.

"Alright, Eurus, I know you're there," Sherlock said finally. Far from being catatonic, as the guards described her, she was hyper-alert and aware of her surroundings. She simply chose not to interact. Sherlock felt confused and uneasy, unsure of his next step.

"Do you want me to come back and play again?" he asked gently.

Eurus blinked.

"Ah, I suppose you do." It appeared she was playing a new game. Where as before she had reached out, reached through the iron bars of her imprisonment, and practically shook them by the shoulders to get them to listen to her, now she had changed course. She wanted Sherlock to reach out, to reach into her mental prison bars and and make contact with her.

 _Poor Eurus,_ Sherlock thought. _S_ _he's just a lonely little girl, crying out for help, and no one can hear her. Locked away in her own mind, just like a prisoner, just like- Mycroft..._

Sherlock jolted back to reality. He was here with on a mission. On two, actually. One was reaching out to Eurus, and the other one was helping Mycroft. He thought he could accomplish both together, just as he had done when saving John.

He smiled at the bittersweet memory. By reassuring Eurus that he would be there for her, he had gotten her to save John. Perhaps he could try that same technique now.

"Eurus," he addressed her. "I'm here now. I want to be here for you. I can be your controller on the ground, helping you land. But just like a pilot, you need to interact with me, so we can land your plane together."

Slowly, she blinked.

"Please tell me, sister mine, what have you done with Mycroft?"

Eurus smiled.

Her smile was anything but reassuring. In fact, it sent shivers down Sherlock's spine.

"Eurus, you have to answer me. There's no way I can come and play with you if I'm distracted by the mystery of what happened to Mycroft!"

A fire was now burning in his little sister's eyes. She picked up her violin and began to play, skillfully and soulfully.

 _I that am lost, oh, who will find me..._

"I don't understand, Eurus. I solved that puzzle already! Do you remember? I found you in your room!" Sherlock was more than confused; he was actually scared. There was something going on in here that he didn't understand.

Eurus began playing again, but there was something wrong with her playing. She played the same few notes over and over again. Sherlock concentrated. She had played the first three stanzas regularly, and now was playing the fourth. Specifically, the second and third lines of the fourth stanza.

 _Who now will find him?_

 _Why, nobody will_

Nobody. Nobody will find him. Of course.

"Eurus, you better tell me what you did to Mycroft, or you will find yourself all alone again!" Sherlock said sharply, his voice tinged with panic.

Eurus picked up her bow, and began a new tune. Sherlock's jaw dropped open. Was she playing country?

The detective didn't like to admit it, but he knew some country tunes, too. Only by sheer coincidence, of course, and not because he would ever condescending to playing folksy tunes instead of classical. This particular tune was even played by the Royal Philharmonic, so it couldn't have been that bad.

So Sherlock could admit that he recognized the tune: "Try a Little Kindness" by Glen Campbell. The message was startlingly easy to decide. Eurus believed she had done Mycroft a kindness. It was eerily reminiscent of Mycroft's words, when he had explained why Eurus's survival had been kept from their parents: _it was a kindness._

"Why is it a kindness? What does Mycroft gain by being rendered into a shell?" Sherlock asked accusingly.

Eurus didn't respond. There were no more clues to be had. Sherlock would need to figure this out by himself.

"Goodbye, sister," he whispered, distraught. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I will be coming back. The games you are playing are too dangerous. Instead of saving you, I think I am getting lost myself."

On his way out, Sherlock heard Eurus play again. She was now playing Wagner's famous lullaby.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked his friend worriedly

Sherlock was holding his head in his hands, pressing at his temples. "Headache."

John gently nudged his head upwards, and scanned the detective's face. "My diagnosis is lack of food, drink, and sleep, plus an overdose of stress. You need to start taking care of yourself, Sherlock."

The detective groaned. "You're not my mother."

"Thank God. I wouldn't have survived. I do qualify as your doctor, however."

"You're such a hypocrite, John. When was the last time _you_ had a good night's sleep? Or ate regular meals?"

John drew back, looking hurt. "Look, Sherlock, I try. I've let Mrs. Hudson feed me, even if I don't have much of an appetite. I'm taking my prescribed sleeping pills, even if I hate how it makes me feel. I'm even going to therapy, even if I can't bring myself to really open up. But you, you're just wasting away, without even trying!"

"I'm fine. Stop fussing."

The doctor left bitterly. "And I'm Her Majesty the Queen. Sure you are."

"I need to talk to him."

"Who?"

"The Queen. I mean, Mycroft. It's... I can't explain it to you, John. I have a puzzle, where I'm in possession of all the pieces, but I can't put it together. The pieces just won't fit. It's frustrating, John."

John Watson was worried, both by Sherlock's repeated use of his name, and by his admitting to being frustrated. "And you think Mycroft can help?"

"He's the only one who can both see the big picture, and has intimate knowledge of the pieces."

John hesitated, then placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "What puzzle is that?" he asked softly.

"Me."

* * *

"In all my life, through my years of Work, I still have yet to meet a man as selfish as you," Sherlock chided. "Why is it, that when I finally want to talk, you've shut down completely?"

The other man didn't answer.

"You're really frustrating. You know, Mummy and Dad have been asking about you. They have all kinds of odds and ends that they need taken care of, and their dutiful son hasn't been answering phone calls. They want to come visit, and if you don't snap out of this soon, _I'll_ be the one to suffer through a horrid musical. Tell me again, what have I done to deserve _that_?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and sighed. "I'll have to tell them, Mycroft. About you, and Eurus, and Sherrinford. I don't want to. It should be you doing that. You're used to giving bad news to our folks, aren't you? Although, you pick and chose, and sometimes lie. I can't do it as well as you."

Sherlock was now talking, more for the sake of getting things off his chest than for the sake of getting a response. As much as he had declared himself a loner and sociopath, he sometimes needed to talk out loud, and needed a focal point for his discussions. In absence of the skull, a listless Mycroft would do.

(John wouldn't. He answered back, and questioned, and pestered Sherlock. As did all other live and conscious conversation partners. That was tedious at times.)

"You know, some things are coming back to me, in bits and pieces. Sometimes I dream about things. Like yesterday, when I dreamed of Victor and I, in the tree house, pretending it was our ship. Did we have a tree house, Mycroft? I couldn't recall it clearly, but I do remember a wooden ladder, painted red. Do you remember that?

"Then I saw Eurus, she must have been three years old, in a yellow dress with white dots. She had a harmonica, and was playing on it, an eerie, haunting tune, although I can't remember it now. Did she play the harmonica, too? Or is it my own imagination that's supplying those images? What about her dress? Was it real?"

Suddenly, Sherlock sat up. "One night, I saw you. You were seated on the sofa, listening to Eurus and me play. You were turning pages in your book, but when I played a note off, you casually corrected me, and then resumed reading. You liked to do your homework where we played. You said it helped you concentrate."

Sherlock walked out of the room, deep in thought. The next day, he was back, violin tucked under his arm.

He began playing. First some pieces Bach, then Mendelssohn, then Mozart's Ein Kleine Nachtmusik, Mycroft's favorite. At this point, while watching his brother's face carefully, Sherlock noticed something astounding. A drop of liquid was making its way out of the unresponsive man's right eyelid, which was still squeezed firmly shut.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, but continued playing, gentle notes wafting in the air. Nothing happened. He stopped, and took hold of Mycroft's hand, squeezing it firmly. "You heard it, you great git. You heard me playing. Look at that, the Iceman moved to tears by a simple piece of music," he whispered, grinning despite himself.

"Music, it's power is greater than words. It transcends the usual boundaries of communication, and opens new doors when others are locked," Sherlock mused, deep in thought.

"Even Eurus- Eurus! That's it!" Sherlock rushed over to the violin, laying forlornly on the small bedside table.

He gently ran the bow over the strings, in no particular sequence, humming thoughtfully. Then he adjusted his position, and began Wagner's lullaby.

As he played, he observed Mycroft keenly. Mycroft was falling asleep. True, he hadn't been the most lively company until now, but this was different. His heart rate was slowing, his breathing was evening out. All the monitors were pointing to a relaxation of his body.

This was more than curious. One thing was clear; Mycroft was aware of his surroundings, up to a point. Sherlock also had a gut feeling that the patient's response to this particular piece of music was no coincidence. ("The universe is rarely so lazy," Mycroft, popping up in his Mind Palace. "Shut up, I'm trying to think," both Mind Palace Sherlock and the virtual one answered.)

Eurus, playing the lullaby, as Sherlock was leaving Sherrinford. Mycroft, falling asleep as the lullaby was being played. Decisively, Sherlock began another round of playing.

He played Eurus's song: _I that am lost..._

Nothing.

Then he played "Try a Little Kindness."

Mycroft slept on.

Sherlock frowned. Ah, Eurus was clever indeed. She would give him some clues, but he had to play her game. It was time for another visit to Sherrinford.


	4. Chapter 4

Eurus's eager smile, upon seeing Sherlock again, was as genuine as he believed she could produce. As much as it he felt flattered to be able to produce that effect on her, he was simultaneously alarmed. What, for someone as unpredictable as Eurus, could have caused her such satisfaction? Sherlock had the gut feeling that he wouldn't like the answer.

"Sister mine," he greeted gently, returning his smile. "You are clever, indeed. You have given me the key to put Big Brother to sleep. Surely you have the key to make him wake?"

He leaned forward, his forehead touching the glass, and said in a low, urgent tone, "You would understand how _boring_ it gets to only watch him sleep. I need some stimulation, urgently. I really don't want to turn to alternative sources."

He hoped his implied threat would work. With Sherlock's history, dabbling in drugs was quite unwise, and would definitely incapacitate him for some time. Eurus, in her own twisted way, cared about his health, if only to have him come visit and play with her.

Eyes shining, Eurus took her violin. She began with a slow, haunting melody, one which was completely unfamiliar to Sherlock. The passion with which she played it gave Sherlock paused. "It's yours, isn't it?" he asked her.

She paused, smiled at him again, and resumed playing. So his guess must have been correct, Sherlock assumed. He listened to the notes carefully. When Eurus finished the melody, with a flourish, he picked up his own instrument.

Line by line, step by step, his little sister taught him the tune. Her eyes turned softer, and her gaze introspective. As if she was remembering a time, long ago, when the miniature version of herself taught Sherlock's miniature counterpart how to play, line by line, step by step. Sherlock's heart gave a little twist at the thought.

After an hour of practice, Sherlock felt himself proficient enough. With a sad little smile, he bade his sister farewell, and promised to be back.

Eurus had suddenly gone blank, as if her essence had slipped out of her body. Shaking his head in sorrow, the detective left.

* * *

Emotionally drained, Sherlock waited until the next day to visit his brother.

"Alright, Mycroft, this is getting quite dull," he informed his blank-eyed brother with affected impatience. "So listen carefully, and I'll get you out of there. Goodness, even for someone as lazy as you, it must be getting boring to just lie around like that."

With practiced strokes, he got his instrument to produce the haunting song he had learned the day before. He had a doctor on standby, just in case.

Halfway through the melody, Mycroft's heartbeat quickened. Sherlock suppressed his excitement and continued playing, carefully observing his brother. The changes then came rapidly. A blink of the eye, followed by a slight shift in position.

Then a wrinkle of confusion appeared on Mycroft's brow. He blinked several times more, then suddenly attempted to sit up. When the last notes faded, Mycroft opened his mouth and attempted to speak.

"Don't," Sherlock held up a hand. He quickly called for the doctor, and then poured a cup of water for the patient. Gently, he helped Mycroft sip the cool liquid.

The doctor checked Mycroft over, and then smiled at the man. "I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes," he said, holding out a hand.

Mycroft struggled to do the same, and they shook. "Dr. Paulson," Mycroft said weakly.

"Ah, you've read my name tag," the physician grinned. "A few quick questions, if you don't mind. Can you tell me your full name?"

"Alexander Mycroft Holmes," he answered confidently, if weakly.

"Today's date?"

"That would depend on how long I was out. Judging by the flowers over there," Mycroft grimaced in distaste, "it has been over a week."

"Twelve days," Dr. Paulson supplied.

"Then it's the twenty-first," the patient retorted.

"Good. Would you happen to recall the name of the current Prime Minister?"

"That depends."

"Oh?" said the doctor, confused.

"On whether the Tories went through with their final plan, regarding the bill that Labor had tried to get passed, which might have caused a- but you don't have to know about _that,_ do you?" he finished smugly.

The doctor gave him a perplexed look, while Sherlock sniggered. "Come on, Mycroft, leave the good doctor out of your political games," he admonished, coming to stand at the edge of the hospital bed.

Mycroft turned to him, looking at the younger man sharply. Sharp eyes roved over Sherlock, analyzing and deducing him. Then the eyes widened, and displayed mild puzzlement. "Pardon me," Mycroft Holmes said to his little brother, "but I believe you have the advantage of me."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in alarm.

"That is, indeed, my name," the older man answered. "And who are you?"

* * *

John Watson regarded his friend worriedly. When he had recieved Sherlock's text, simply reading _Come immediately,_ he had thought it to be good news.

Sherlock had met him at the entrance to the hospital, and dryly informed him that Mycroft was awake. John had smiled in relief, and was ready to congratulate Sherlock, when the latter had stopped him, by announcing abruptly, "He doesn't know who I am."

John had been concerned, but tried to reassure his friend. "Sometimes, after a trauma, a person may manifest some kind of amnesia, but that's usually temporary, and can be treated-"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock had cut him off harshly, and then sighed. "This... this doesn't look like amnesia. He remembers basically everything- except me."

"That might be because you are associated with the trauma, you know, just like when you- well, you know," John trailed off.

Sherlock sighed, and then shook his head. "I don't know, there's just something strange about this."

"Have you tried talking to him? Maybe that would jolt his memories," John had suggested.

"I did. But for some reason, my presence seemed to... disturb him, and he became very anxious when I spoke. The doctors kicked me out," he finished gloomily.

Sherlock hadn't returned to the hospital for the next three days, on the advice of Mycroft's health care team, who wanted to further assess the patient's condition, and give him a chance to recover.

Sherlock, predictably enough, hadn't slept, or eaten, in all that while. Now John was watching him alternately splayed listlessly on the sofa, or pace in agitation.

"I think you should go visit again," John suggested. "Mycroft might have recovered his memories, at least partially."

Sherlock shrugged listlessly.

"I'm coming with you, this time," John said firmly, expecting immediate protest.

To his surprise, Sherlock merely looked at him thoughtfully. "That's actually a good idea," he said. "Sometimes you actually use some of your scant brain cells."

John rolled his eyes.

"It may prove, or disprove, my theory. Either way, I'll be better informed."

The doctor didn't bother inquiring further. After a phone call to the hospital, the duo were on their way.

* * *

"You were here when I woke up," Mycroft stated, after Sherlock had walked into the room.

"Yes, and you didn't know who I am," Sherlock stated, his tone accusatory.

"Was I supposed to?" Mycroft asked in mild puzzlement.

In response, Sherlock pointed to his friend. "Do you know who he is?"

Mycroft looked at the man keenly. "Dr. Watson. I believe we have worked together before. You'll excuse me if I don't recall the exact circumstances," he said politely, although his eyes betrayed a hint of confusion.

Sherlock was quiet for a couple of minutes, his head bowed slightly, and his hands inside the pockets of his Belstaff. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he spoke up quietly.

"A relation, then?" Mycroft asked blandly, but his fists were clenched, and their was a slight quaver to his voice.

"Brother," Sherlock looked him in the eye.

Mycroft looked startled, and then his expression turned fierce. "I hope you know whom you're trying to mess with," he hissed. "I've never had a brother. Now, get out, before I call security on you."

"Yes, you have! Why are you being so difficult?" Sherlock retorted, his voice rising. "You know, the idiot of the family? The one you always have followed by CCTV's, and try to poke your nose into his every affair? Come on, it can't be that hard to remember!"

Mycroft stared at him, turning pale. "Dr. Watson," he asked faintly. "Is he right?"

John nodded helplessly.

"Impossible! I would have remembered such a thing," the elder Holmes whispered to himself, shaking his head back and forth.

"What about Eurus?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed exponentially.

"How do _you_ know about Eurus?"

"She's my sister, just like she's yours. You see, I have proof of what I'm claiming. Now, do you still not believe me?" Sherlock gritted out.

Mycroft regarded him in confusion, which quickly turned into agitation. Suddenly, he sat up,and pointed a finger at Sherlock. "You, you're a very experienced liar, but still a liar. Now, GET OUT, AND I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU HERE AGAIN!"

Mycroft's shouts alerted several staff members, who rushed in and quickly ushered the visitors out. Sherlock could hear Mycroft furiously ranting about the slammer, who tried to trick him, and could hear the soothing voices of the medical staff trying to calm him down.

Mycroft's voice only increase in volume and intensity, until it reached near hysteria. Sherlock waited until he heard his brother's voice slur and then quiet, no doubt the result of heavy tranquilizers.

Sherlock turned away from his friend, so as not to betray the wetness in his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** This chapter is about Sherlock dealing with the remaining members of his family. I promise to get back to Mycroft and what's happening with him in the next chapter! Please read and enjoy, and thank you for all your support:)

* * *

It was the last place on earth that Sherlock wanted to find himself in, yet here he was.

"Eurus," Sherlock greeted his sister quietly. The single word he uttered somehow contained all the pain, frustration, and pity he felt towards his sister right then.

She smiled slightly, and lifted her instrument eagerly.

"No," Sherlock said. "Today, I will talk. You may listen, if you want."

Eurus's eyes were alive with curiosity.

"Sister mine, I'm sure you are aware of exactly what happened to Mycroft. His state of mind is, no doubt, your handiwork. Following that, I'm sure you have the cure."

Eurus lifted her violin once again, looking at Sherlock hesitantly. Sherlock shook his head. "I won't ask you for it. _You_ will have no part in solving this. I just want to let you know, that I know what you did, and I know why you did it."

Sherlock's voice was flat. He was afraid of letting even a bit of emotion leak in, in case he lost control. "It was clever of you. You _deleted_ my existence from Mycroft's mind. In exchange for my deleting you, all those years doubt, you consider it fair punishment for both of us. Making Mycroft forget about me, just as I had forgotten about you. And Mycroft, for letting me forget, for not bringing me to you sooner."

The Sherrinford inmate looked at Sherlock with sparkling eyes. Although her face showed no other change in expresion, Sherlock deduced that she was happy with him, even _proud._ The family idiot was finally catching on.

"Eurus, you need to understand, I cannot allow your further interference in Mycroft's recovery. You have used me as a tool, to manipulate him and play with his mind. I don't really know how to help him, but you have lost my trust. In your brilliant mind, can you see how that happened?"

He looked at her intently. "Trust is based on several things, but mostly on previous experience. If someone does you good, time and time again, you will come to expect goodness from them. Likewise, if someone... hurts you... time and again," Sherlock found himself choking up. It suddenly struck him just how much he had been hurt, and abused, by his silent partner in this conversation, and he struggled to regain his composure. "You then learn to expect more hurt. You've, you've hurt me, Eurus. Time and again... I had one friend. You took him from me. Then I nearly lost my second friend, who was only spared in the last minute. Now you've taken my... my brother, who was always there for me as... as a friend and an enemy, whatever role I needed him to play, and now he can look straight at me and still not know that I exist.

"I'm still your brother, Eurus, and I can't help caring about you. Still, I can never trust you again, and that hurts."

Sherlock fled before he could see how his sister would respond. His day was not yet over. He now had to go to the second last place on earth he wished to find himself in.

* * *

Mildred Holmes, even with her eternal optimism, couldn't help but worry when Sherlock called them. Naturally, it was because of the very fact that he called. She couldn't recall the last occasion that had happened, and that wasn't a good sign.

He was coming over, to talk. Mummy Holmes wasn't stupid, no matter what her brilliant sons might sometimes think, and immediately connected that to Mycroft's mysterious lack of communication. William Holmes silently agreed with her, but maintained his usual implacable demeanor to avoid upsetting her further.

"Where's Mycroft?" she pounced on Sherlock as almost as soon as he walked through the door. "Where is my son?"

"I thought _I'm_ your son," Sherlock tried to joke, but it fell decidedly flat.

"Sherlock," his father said mildly. "Don't upset your mother. Tell us about Mycroft."

"My big brother is fine," he hurried to reassure them, although all three of them knew he was lying. "He's alive, he's breathing, and probably stuffing himself with cake right now at his kitchen table."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes scolded, but her relief was palpable. "But why doesn't he ever pick up the phone?"

"Probably because there's very bad reception in hospital," her son replied nonchalantly.

"Sherlock, really!" his mother cried in exasperation. "You just said that he's home!"

"Now," Sherlock clarified.

"Son, you're teasing your mother. Why was Mycroft in hospital?"

Sherlock sighed. They were getting to the crux of the matter, and he still wasn't prepared for the Big Reveal. "There was nothing really wrong with him. He wasn't sick or injured. You might say he had a bit of a shock."

He softened his voice, and begged his parents to sit down. "I'm afraid what I'll say next will come as a shock to you too," he said gently. He sat down himself, and plunged in. "Mummy, Dad, Eurus is alive."

What followed was at once predictable and yet deeply disturbing to Sherlock. His parents' exclamations of shock and bewilderment eventually gave way to grief and hurt, as Sherlock explained the deception. The elder Holmes were stricken by the news, no less than if they had been informed of Eurus's death all over again. Sherlock, having never been tasked with issuing comfort to his parents, was pretty much at a loss.

Awkwardly, he patted Mummy's shoulder and waited for her sobs to subside. "How could he!" Mildred questioned brokenly through her sobs. "How could he have lied to us like that!"

Sherlock had no answer for her.

Eventually, he related a _very_ abridged version of his first visit to Sherrinford. He mentioned them being trapped and forced to play some games at Eurus's behest. He finished with the part about John and him being brought back to Musgrave.

Sherlock would never forget the look on his parents' faces when he mentioned their old home. "Musgrave," Dad whispered, his face going very pale. "I didn't think I would hear it mentioned ever again."

"We- we brought you up there," Mummy choked out. "So many good memories... but I could never think of that place without thinking of, you know, everything that happened there. Our family never really recovered- was never the same again."

Sherlock couldn't help picturing the image he himself retained of his old home. Not one of frolicking on the grounds, but a towering ruin, blackened by fire, and a lost little girl crying in her room, while his friend was drowning and his brother was-

Yes, he still hadn't told them about Mycroft. Could he deal them another blow, so soon?

 _Mycroft should have been dealing with this,_ he thought, before the absurdity of that thought struck him.

"But you all got out of there safely, didn't you?" Mummy practically pleaded.

"Of course," Sherlock murmured soothingly.

"Now, where is that boy? I really need to give him a piece of my mind," Mummy got up, her tiger persona rearing its head, as the force of Mycroft's betrayal struck her. "We grieved for years... She's our daughter, and he _knew_ she was alive, and he never said a _word_!"

"There's something else you should know," Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Mycroft is a bit- different now."

"How?" Dad demanded, his voice as soft as ever, but his eyes hard.

"Eurus played a sort of game with him, somehow made him forget some things. Mostly related to one specific subject."

"That can't be so bad," Mummy said optimistically. "Whatever it is, we can remind him."

Sherlock forced himself to look straight at her. "Mummy, he doesn't remember _me._ "


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** The medical and psychological references in this chapter should be taken as seriously as the ones in the show. Which means, not at all.

Really, when you come across a woman who controls an entire prison through the power of her mind, and a deleted sister who killed a dog who was really a boy, you don't try to prove it scientifically impossible, you just go along with it for entertainment's sake. So please do me the same courtesy;)

* * *

The Holmes family, minus the eldest son, were sitting at a round table, along with three professionals, who composed the Healthcare team of the absent son.

Dr. Geoffrey Patricks, the leader of the team, was considered to be one of the foremost experts in the field of neurobiology. He admitted that this case was one of his most intriguing, and was honored to be called on it. He began the meeting by explaining the results of the various neurological and psychological tests they had conducted on Mycroft.

"There's plenty of good news," Patricks said encouragingly. "We haven't found any signs of brain damage. The patient is in prime physical condition. Now, as to his memory, we have found that only a narrow area has been affected. That gives us hope for continued productive living, even if the specific memories aren't recovered."

"Pardon me," Mildred Holmes interrupted, her voice steely. "Are you saying that you don't think Mycroft will recover his memories?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Holmes," the doctor hurried to reassure her. "We aren't sure at this point, but we won't give up that fast. All I'm saying is, that even in the worst case, your son can still continue with his previous job and routine, with some minor modifications. He's lucky that his memory loss is confined to a narrow area."

"That 'narrow area' is his brother!" Mrs. Holmes burst out. "How dare you trivialize that! He just erased his own flesh and blood from his mind!"

Patricks clasped his hands together as if in supplication. "Please, Mrs. Holmes, we're on the same side here. I understand that this must be very painful for you. For one son to forget about another one isn't something any mother would care to see. We just need to put things into perspective-"

"Doctor Patricks," William Holmes cut in quietly, placing a wrinkled hand gently on his wife's arm. "Let's get back to this later. What do you suggest can be done for Mycroft? And how can we help?"

Patricks looked around, at the worried parents, and the younger son, whose face was blank but his fingers were drumming a steady pattern on the table, and took a deep breath. "Now, we think Mycroft is capable of returning to his regular work routine, with some assistance. We did a test run with his PA, on the advice of your younger son. Mycroft was able to recall all the details of the files she brought him, and showed no decline in his, ah, unique set of skills. Upon request, he used his 'deductive reasoning,' as he calls it, to analyze some members of the staff, and frankly, it was mind-blowing.

"His PA seemed to think his judgement in making decisions was impaired, and we felt we could take her word for it, as we couldn't test that ourselves. As the patient himself put it to me, 'these things aren't for your eyes and ears, doctor.'" Patricks forced a chuckle, and then turned his expression grave. "However, in some instances, he was unable to properly work on his tasks. That was when the topic of his, ah, deleted memories came up."

"You mean me," came the low, acerbic voice of Sherlock Holmes. "I would kindly thank you not to refer to myself as 'deleted memories.' I'm Sherlock, if you didn't get that before."

"Sherlock!" Mummy scolded, looking at her son helplessly.

"No offense, Sherlock," the doctor said placatingly. "It's just semantics, really. So, yes, whenever Sherlock is referred to, whether directly or by something connected to him, the patient has shown an unusual degree of agitation and confusion. We began by asking him about related topic, such as John Watson or Baker Street. Mycroft claimed to have vague memories about them, but was unwilling to specify. When pressed for details, he became agitated and demanded to be left alone."

"You mean he threatened you," Sherlock added in a bored tone.

Patrick's ignored him, but couldn't help his very slight shudder. "The first time we became aware of the patient's memory issues was at the initial encounter between the patient and the object of his- I'm sorry, the patient and Sherlock, which caused the patient to enter a state of hysteria, to the point of needing sedation."

"What does that mean, doctor?" William questioned, his voice still calm, although tinged with concern. "Why would Mycroft have that reaction? What can be done to reverse this?"

Patricks cleared his throat. "Alright. We have a theory about that, and will base our treatment upon that in the meantime. I do hope that you'll forgive me for touching upon sensitive topics. We need to all be open and honest for the sake of bringing healing," he smiled uncomfortably, as everyone in the room seemed to tense. "We've heard the history of your daughter, and the interactions between all three siblings. What Sherlock experienced as a child, I would class as a form of dissociative amnesia, brought on by PTSD. His mind couldn't handle all the painful memories, and therefore erased it's source, which was his sister.

"There is reason to believe that Mycroft has gone through something similar. It is curious, indeed, that he didn't erase the memory of his sister, who was responsible, I understand, for some traumatic experiences of his.

"Instead, his dissociative amnesia has for some reason latched on to his brother. It is logical to assume that there are some traumatic associations in that area, which for some reason supercede the others. Taking that into account, we believe it best for Mycroft that we not force the subject for now. At a later point, we can slowly reintroduce subtle reminders-"

"Ridiculous!" Mildred spat. She half-rose from her chair, clutching at the table with white-knuckled hands. "Are you saying that Mycroft was traumatized by _Sherlock_? That's just- I know my Sherlock, and he's a good boy. If anything, I would expect just the opposite, with Mycroft being the way he is... Either way, don't you go blaming my poor boy for something he didn't do, or you'll have me to deal with!"

"No, no, I never meant to imply that!" Patricks defended himself, taking a step back in alarm. "Traumatic memories are certainly subjective. It just means that Mycroft has some kind of major stress associated with Sherlock, not that Sherlock is at fault. I don't know what, it could be some kind of conflict they had, or perhaps Mycroft is bearing some kind of guilt regarding Sherlock, and his mind is protecting itself in this way. I'm just advising caution here."

"No," Sherlock spoke up, letting the word fall like a hammer. "That doesn't make any sense. That's not the Mycroft I know. Mycroft doesn't run from responsibilities."

"Well, perhaps he would if it got too much," Patricks opined. "I need to be honest here, Sherlock. Based on what I know of your history, Mycroft has felt himself responsible for your welfare for a very long time. You mentioned how he has helped with your, ah, issues involving illicit substances, and the help he has provided on various occasions. Has he ever mentioned feeling that your issues were his fault?"

Sherlock tensed, and clenched his fists. "Always," he said quietly.

"Then perhaps he subconsciously sought to absolve himself."

"Never," Sherlock hissed. "I know my brother better than anyone else. The last thing Mycroft is capable of, is running from his burdens. I think what he's done now, is just take on another one."


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft was busying himself at his computer, never glancing up, despite being aware of the pair of eyes watching him intently. He immersed himself in dealing with the aftershocks of the latest debacle to reach his desk, something about the indiscretions of a British politician, which had sparked an incident with the authorities in Sweden, and also involved a Bolivian diplomat, who had ties to the Mexican government, who blamed the Americans for instigation of the incident, while the Americans claimed that the Cubans were at fault.

It was the perfect foil for his mood. An intense, involved task, that would engage all of his brainpower, and leave him no time to ponder over other matters. If only Anthea would learn when to leave him alone.

"Sir," came the familiar call, the voice firm and assertive. "I need to know how to proceed with the project."

"I trust you to make your own decision," he smiled politely, although his voice had a very sharp edge.

"This was never under my domain," she said softly.

"I believe you are familiar enough with my usual MO to use your own judgement in this," he said, trying to lighten his tone.

"Then I'll just put in the regular procedures, and contact the tech team for the most updated security installations."

"That's a good girl," he answered, a trace of mockery in his voice.

She smiled without taking offence. "Budget?"

"Whatever it takes," he replied, looking at her earnestly.

Anthea hurried off to complete her tasks, while Mycroft paused in his work, staring blankly at the screen. He was doing well by his brother, or at least as well as he could for a brother he couldn't remember. Nevertheless, he wasn't one to shirk from duty. And family was duty.

Sherlock, as they said his brother was called, was now residing in temporary accommodations, as his flat was being redone. Mycroft had ensured that the renovations would have enough funds, and that the best security system was being installed. He supposed Mummy would be happy. His brother might, or might not. He didn't really know. He didn't remember anything about his brother's personality, or their relationship. Not that he imagined they had a close relationship. Whatever he had forgotten, Mycroft still knew what he was. Icemen didn't _do_ brotherly relationships.

"Sir," Anthea called again. "It's your parents. They want to see you."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "Alright, bring o the firing squad. I suppose there's no sense in delaying the inevitable, is there?"

His parents were ushered in, and Mummy rushed at him, even more emotional than usual. "Mikey, oh my goodness, what has she done to you?" She gently moved his chin so that he was looking into her eyes. "Are you alright? Tell me this isn't true. You do remember who _I_ am, right?"

Dad was standing right behind her, his mouth turning up in amusement, as he winked at Mycroft. "If I didn't know who you are," Mycroft answered in his most surly tone, "do you believe I would have let you barge in like this and attack me?"

Mummy chuckled, relief apparent in her eyes. "Oh, Mikey, this is definitely you. So what's all this nonsense we've heard about you and Sherlock? Because I don't believe for a minute that my brilliant boy can just forget about something as important as his own family. So why don't you tell me what game you're playing, hmmm?" Mommy's voice had turned very sharp suddenly.

"I am _not_ playing any games!" Mycroft retorted, reverting instantly to teenagehood. "Why is it that you never believe anything I say?"

Mummy sucked in a deep breath. "Now, listen here, young man. You don't talk to me about believing you! You've been playing games with us for years, haven't you?" She gave him a look that could have frozen the Sahara desert. "You've lied to us about our daughter. We mourned her for _years_ , and you never once said anything. You've kept her locked up, isolated, without even a single visit from her own parents. Now you expect me to believe that you've suddenly forgotten about another sibling. Why wouldn't I be suspicious?"

Mycroft couldn't look his mother in the eye. "But, Mummy, why would I lie about that? What would I gain by pretending?" He tried to plead, his very dry mouth barely capable of forming the words.

"You tell _me_! Perhaps you're trying to play on our sympathies, now that you've been found out. Or maybe you've decided that our family is not good enough for you anymore, and you're trying to rid yourself of responsibility by playing silly games. What do you think, Mycroft?" Mommy's voice contained enough venom to kill a grown man.

"Dad," Mycroft turned a pleading gaze to his father. William Holmes looked at him sympathetically. "I understand you've just undergone some major...things, Mycroft, and that has shaken you up a bit. I want you to know that we're here for you. You don't have to pretend in order to gain our attention."

"You don't believe me, either," Mycroft whispered thickly.

"Mycroft, I didn't say that. Only, it's Sherlock. You know, your little brother, the one always annoying you? Look at me, Mycroft," he waited patiently until Mycroft had forced himself to meet his gaze. "You were always complaining about him. About his drug use, and his tendency to take your stuff, and how he would always get away with things we never let you get away with..." The senior Holmes trailed off as he watched his son look at him in desperate confusion.

"I don't know," Mycroft said, his voice rising slightly. "Really, I don't see how that matters so much. We can't have been very close, either way. I understand, he's your son, but it looks like he just wasn't that much in my thoughts if I managed to erase his existence."

The elder couple froze. "How could you!" Mummy exclaimed, once her shock had worn off. " How could you!" She repeated, hurt and anger oozing from her tone. "I always knew you had some jealousy towards Sherlock, but I never knew what you really thought of him. It doesn't matter, you say? Well, you idiot boy, it matters to us. We won't be speaking to you unless you stop playing these childish games. Come, William," she turned to her husband, looking him to follow, as she stalked to the door.

Dad looked at Mycroft sadly. "I don't know what to believe anymore, but you shouldn't have said that. He's your brother, Mycroft! Please do think about what you're doing to the family, now," he admonished, before he left, himself.

Mycroft laid his head down on his desk, his temples burning. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he muttered to himself, the name rolling around on his tongue in an unfamiliar way. "Why is everyoned throwing that name at my face all the time?"

He tired to picture the young man he had met at the hospital. Slowly, and image formed in his mind, ridiculously curly hair with Dad's razor sharp cheekbones, shockingly wide blue eyes, looking at him, penetrating him with their magnetic gaze, the gaze turning suddenly murky and lost ... _Mycroft, help... need you... I'm dying..._

Mycroft jolted up in shock. Something had surfaced, most probably a memory. A sudden anxiety welled up inside him. "No, that's not good. That's dangerous... " _You need to forget, brother, or things won't end well._ Mycroft heard the voice overwhelming his mind. _Forget, protect, forget in order to protect, don't remember, don't recall..._

As Mycroft's mind was awhirl in memories and voices, a haunting tune began playing from somewhere inside his mind. The same haunting tune that had woken him in the hospital. It soothed him, protected him, and put his mind at ease. Vague words were interspersed with the tune, like a refrain at the end of each stanza. _Forget, protect, forget, protect._

"Sir?" he heard the voice which broke him out of his reverie. "Is everything alright?"

He shook his head, trying to shake off the last remains of what felt like lethargy, and straightened his shoulders. Now, where was he again? Oh, that mysterious brother called Sherlock. He couldn't understand all the fuss surrounding him. Well, he would make sure that he was taken care of, and that would get his parents off his back.

"Yes," he answered calmly. "Everything is alright."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** This chapter is one before the last. I hope you all enjoyed this. I'd love to hear some feedback on this. What do you think Sherlock will do next? How about Mycroft? See you next chapter!

* * *

"You said _what_?" Sherlock asked, frowning in consternation.

"I just told him to stop playing games," Mildred Holmes answered harshly. "You know how Mikey can be sometimes. He needs to know we won't be putting up with this."

Sherlock fell silent, looking thoughtful. He clasped his hands together and stared off into space, ignoring his mother. After several moments, he spoke, quietly and firmly. "Mycroft isn't the one playing games here, Mummy. It's Eurus."

"Don't you go blaming your sister for all this," Mummy snapped. "How can she be responsible? She's still locked up and all alone. Why you are buying into this is beyond me, Sherlock."

"Because I was there."" The words were said so quietly that they were barely heard. Nevertheless, they echoed loudly in the silent room.

"I think we should just leave him alone right now," Sherlock added. "Give him some time. Maybe he'll sort things out on his own."

Mummy sniffed suddenly. "I want to see my daughter," she said suddenly. "I've waited long enough, don't you think?"

Sherlock gazed at her sympathetically. "Yes, you did. Let me see what I can arrange."

"Dad too, of course. And you'll come with us, won't you?"

"I'll be there," Sherlock promised.

"Your brother can stay away, if he wants to. He can decide if he wants to be part of the family or not."

Sherlock didn't answer.

* * *

Sherlock did stay away, until he received Anthea's phone call, several days later.

"Look, I know I'm only his PA, and not a medical professional, but I'm worried," Anthea confessed.

"I trust your judgement, Anthea, more than all those so-called medical opinions," Sherlock said gently. "Tell me your concerns."

"He's been having these... episodes. He blanks out for several moments, just sitting there, looking dazed, and it can take me several minutes to shake him out of it."

"I see," Sherlock murmured. "How often?"

"I would see him like this, once or twice a day. It's become more frequent since he saw your parents. Several times a day. Sherlock, it's not just blanking out. He has this look on his face- he looks terrified, to be honest." Her voice faltered. "He had an episode just a few minutes before. But this was worse than ever. He was literally shaking. When I tried talking to him, he kept on mumbling, 'No, no, I can't do that.' And then I asked him what he was afraid of."

She broke off suddenly. "What did he say?" Sherlock pressed.

"He said, 'Remembering.'"

"That's what I thought," Sherlock said quietly. "Anthea, listen to me. I didn't want to force the issue, but I need to, now. I'm coming over. Don't tell him a word."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock," Anthea fretted, before they both hung up.

* * *

Sherlock entered his brother's private domain, with his violin case tucked under his arm. Mycroft's expression turned instantly wary, but not surprised.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Hello, brother mine," Sherlock replied grinning. He deposited the violin on the desk between them.

Mycroft grimaced. "And good afternoon to you, brother mine," he responded, almost automatically. A brief flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Is that-" he stopped abruptly.

"Yes, that's what you used to call me," the younger one answered.

"What do you want from me?" Mycroft asked, leaning back wearily in his chair.

"Just a friendly chat with my dearest brother," Sherlock retorted, still grinning.

Mycroft's expression turned hard. "I don't _do_ either friendly, or chat, so kindly just say what you want."

"I'm holding you to your promise. You've reneged on your word, you know, and that's just not on." Sherlock waited.

Mycroft made another sour face. "How should I remember what I promised when I don't even know you really exist? I would think this to be an elaborate hoax, if only I could see the point of pulling this off."

Sherlock sat down opposite his brother, and made himself comfortable. He made sure to hold Mycroft's gaze, while he enunciated, "I was there for you before. I am here for you now. I will _always_ -" Sherlock's stressed the word, a hitch cutting him off afterwards, "always be there for you."

Sherlock observed Mycroft carefully, and watched him give a sudden twitch, and turn pale. "I never said that," Mycroft protested hoarsely. "I don't do sentiment."

"Not sentiment," Sherlock corrected him gravely. "Duty."

Before Sherlock's eyes, Mycroft suddenly blanked out. At first, he sat very still, his expression blank. After a few minutes, he began twitching. A moan suddenly left his lips, and his eyes took on the terrified expression of a trapped animal. "No, I can't," he mumbled. "Can't forget. He's still there."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's left shoulder, and shook it gently. "Don't listen to her, Mycroft, listen to me."

Mycroft continued mumbling incomprehensibly. "No, you're stronger than her," Sherlock pleaded. "Don't listen to her. Listen to me. I'm here."

Sherlock reached for his instrument, and carefully tucked it under his chin. He let the notes flow, bittersweet memories rising as he did. He continued keeping an eye on his brother as he played.

Mycroft had stopped twitching, and had stiffened into stone. Sherlock began singing along to his melody, his baritone filling the room, but never overpowering the music.

"Chim chiminey, chim chimney, chim chim che-ree, a sweep is as lucky as lucky can be..."

He continued singing, until he had finished the song. He gave a little flourish with his bow, and looked straight at Mycroft.

Mycroft was now trembling slightly, as if shivering from cold. Sherlock put his violin back in its case, and then walked around the desk, and crouched down next to his brother. "Mycroft," he called anxiously. "Mycroft, talk to me."

"You- you always played Bert. And you made me be Mary Poppins," Mycroft croaked out.

"Yes, you always liked cross-gender acting, didn't you?"

"You gave me an umbrella for my birthday once, so I would look the part."

"You took quite the liking to it, didn't you?" Sherlock smiled.

"You tried to get Eurus to play Jane, but she wouldn't. She said.. She said she was flying, like Mary, but she didn't have an umbrella to help her land," Mycroft continued, his words coming out thickly, his face a picture of turmoil. "Why didn't I see it- I should have realized. This is all my fault."

"Don't go there, Mycroft," Sherlock said sternly. "You did the best you could. Nobody could have done better under the circumstances, I think."

"No," Mycroft said, his voice suddenly flat. "This is wrong. You shouldn't be here. Go away, Sherlock, and stay away, if you know what's good for you."

Sherlock observed his brother's pinched face and clenched fist.

"What are you afraid of, Mycroft?" he challenged.

His brother stood up, drawing himself to his full height. "Not another word," he said harshly. "Out!"

"But-" Sherlick began protesting. Mycroft pressed a button on his intercom. "Anthea, please escort this gentleman out," he said decisively. He then began busying himself with some papers, completely ignoring the other presence in the room.

Bewildered and disquieted, Sherlock skunk out of the room. He promised himself that he would be back, soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Yes, it's me again. It feels so good to put something out again. I know many of you are waiting for me to continue my other works, which I hope I'll be able to do now on a more regular basis. It's been a hard few months for me, but I'm hoping that things will get easier now. Thank you for your patience, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!**

* * *

Sherlock had intended to come back. He really had. And yet, six days had passed since his last conversation with Mycroft, and Sherlock still hadn't gone back to see his elder brother. Since there was absolutely nothing that could have stopped Sherlock from attempting to do what he wished, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn. Sherlock, deep inside his subconscious, did not truly wish to go.

Sherlock was therefore somewhat relieved when Anthea rang him, forcing him to confront the issue he had thus far avoided. (It hurt less to think about Mycroft as an issue, rather than his brother. Issues couldn't erase him from their memories, and if they did, it didn't really count.) Sherlock would have preferred, however, that Anthea get straight to the point, instead of uncharacteristically hemming and hawing.

"What _exactly_ do you mean by a 'situation,' Anthea?" Sherlock snapped. "Be precise."

"Mr. Holmes," Anthea's voice came now in a very precise manner, indeed, "Your brother is holding a loaded pistol to his own forehead. I found him standing in this manner next to the Thames, and am doing all I can to convince him not to pull the trigger."

"Give me the coordinates," Sherlock ordered, while automatically going to grab his coat. "Tell him-" Sherlock paused. "Tell him that I'll follow his lead if he doesn't wait for me."

The detective frantically waved down a cab and barked his orders. He didn't bother paying. That's why Mycroft's men were surrounding the location there, surely. Sherlock rushed to the figure he spied leaning against the gate. He slowed his steps as he came ever closer, until he was standing mere feet from his brother.

In half of a torturously long moment, Sherlock assessed the situation. The remains of Mycroft's umbrella were lying on the concrete, while Mycroft himself held the gun he had removed from the brolly to his right temple. In the second half of the moment, Sherlock managed to catch his breath and then reach out to hold his brother's gaze.

Mycroft returned his gaze, his eyes holding no other emotion then resignation. Sherlock couldn't puzzle that out.

Sixty seconds later, Sherlock could no longer control himself.

"The Royal Society would be so disappointed," he murmured.

A slight twitch of the eyebrow was the only body language Mycroft communicated, as he answered languidly, "Yes, well, my brain is now officially considered damaged. And I'll have a cleaner shot."

"But really, the Thames?" Sherlock shot back.

"Easier cleanup," Mycroft shrugged.

Sherlock rubbed a hand to his own temple.

"Mycroft," he said slowly, gently, in a voice he had never used on anyone, let alone his elder brother. "You don't have to do this. Whatever Eurus has told you-"

"This was never about Eurus," Mycroft interrupted impatiently. "She is, as I had long ago determined, a lost cause. I'm sorry that you were so slow to catch up."

Sherlock did not miss the sting in those last words. "Yes, she is. I do know what this is about, though. What it was always about. But there's one thing I don't fully understand. How is your suicide supposed to accomplish your goal? How is leaving me all alone supposed to _protect me_?"

"Don't be thick, little brother," Mycroft chided scornfully. "Moriarty, Magnussen, Eurus. They would never have gone after you if it weren't for me."

"They would never have gotten to you if it weren't for me!" Sherlock burst out angrily. "They could only manipulate you by using your only weakness. Me. Protecting _me._ "

"Then you do understand," Mycroft said softly. "Both of us, alive, isn't very practical. People will always find ways to use one of us against the 's what Eurus had clarified to me."

Sherlock stared. "Is that why you went into a coma?"

"That was the original plan. I would have stayed there, but you couldn't leave well enough alone."

"You both knew I never would. So, the next step was to simply cut me out of your life? To protect yourself?" Sherlock asked bitterly.

"No, foolish boy, to protect _you._ When word got around that I no longer acknowledged you as family, you wouldn't be ever again used as a pawn. In order to make that realistic, I had to let Eurus hypnotize me into forgetting. Forgetting you ever existed. In no other circumstances would I have managed to completely disengage from you."

"Oh, I see. I messed that up by forcing you to remember, didn't I?" Sherlock asked coolly.

"Hence Plan C," Mycroft nodded. "Everyone will benefit. You will be safe from at least my concerns, and my mistakes. I will finally no longer have to deal with the mundanities of existence, and Mummy and Dad will have a happy family, without their disappointment of an eldest."

Sherlock let his shoulders sag. He found no words to say, nothing that could refute the terrible leap of logic his brother had taken. He knew that if Mycroft was determined, even he couldn't prevent him from following through.

"I see," he choked out."I... see. But..." he added frantically, stalling for time, more time, any time that would keep his brother in this realm of existence. "But what about me?"

"What about you?" Mycroft questioned warily.

Sherlock looked down at his hands and had a sudden flashback to his fingers worrying his beloved instrument. He began humming wordlessly, the opening bars of a song they both knew too well. Then he put his face inches from his brother's. "I that am lost... who will find me when I'm lost? Huh? How can you leave me like this, lost and with no one to find me? What kind of big brother does that?"

Sherlock observed Mycroft's gun-holding hand tremble ever so slightly. "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know what to do anymore." Sherlock watched as resignation gave way to confusion, then exhaustion, and realized he had an opportunity.

"Let me help you with that," he said gently. He cautiously removed the pistol from unresisting fingers. "You need to stop taking responsibility for things you can't help. You need to let others worry and care for you once in a while. That's what family and friends are for, after all."

He put a firm hand on his brother's shoulder and guided him to a waiting black car. "Come home with me, we'll get you sorted out," Sherlock coaxed, glancing at Anthea, who nodded her head in agreement. "Just follow my lead for now."

While Sherlock and Anthea were helping a pliant British Government get up to Sherlock's flat, thoughts were racing through the detective's mind. He would need to take his brother away for awhile, and get him to experience a real holiday. He would have to work out a support system, to have Mycroft surrounded by people who loved and cared about him, not only what he could do. For now, however, there was only one thing his brother needed urgently.

Sherlock helped Mycroft into a pair of pajamas, and tucked him into his bed. "Sweet dreams, Mycroft. Give yourself a rest."

Sherlock watched Mycroft dociley close his eyes, and whispered, "Go to sleep, brother mine. Go to sleep."


End file.
